Owe!...I'm Ok!

They say everyone has a superpower no matter how mundane. Some people never get stuck at a red light. Some people can guess the exact time. Some people have a great sense of direction and never get lost.

And then there's me.

I get the most random and sometimes unexplainable injuries.

Ever since I was a kid, I've be anything but graceful. Going through puberty, my family and teachers always told me my clumsiness was an attribute of my growing body and me getting used to it (though I don't know how this explained me walking into the walls in the home I'd been in since birth). The running joke in my house is that you'd hear a thud and then promptly followed by me yelling "I'm ok." I am still looking forward to "getting used to" my body, going on fifteen years. . .

I'm so used to having minor scratches and bruises that, for the most part, I don't even really question where my most recent injury has come from. I walk into things on a daily basis. But every now and again there is something that takes the cake.

These are their (my injuries') stories *insert Law and Order sound effect*

It's the Fourth of July. The sun is at it's height, blazing hot. The air is crisp and stale and the only way to cool down is a sweet dip into the local community pool. Parents lounge beneath umbrellaed tables, kiddies splash in the kid-zone, the older kids spring off of the diving board--showing off their skills and judging who can make the biggest splash on their cannon ball.

I barrel down the length of the board, bouncing more and more with each step until I've reached the end. The green aging diving board bobs up and down with my weight. I bend my knees, adding the spring before bouncing once, twice.

I'm air borne! Mid-air, right where the free fall begins to end and gravity takes over, I tuck my knees up to my chest, bend down my neck until my forehead touches the tops of my knees.

The cold chlorinated water swallows me whole, with a deep plop. I enjoy the sinking sensation, pulling me near the bottom before I start my way to the surface.

A cheering group made up of my younger sister and a couple of our friends greet me. Holding up their fingers, I have an array of 8-10 points for my cannon ball. This surely puts me in the lead, you know, if we were actually keeping track of these things.

I swim to the edge of the pool and pull myself up. As I put my foot on the pool grate, the underside of my foot passes over the small filter on the edge of the pool and I instantly know something is wrong. My foot feels strange, almost disconnected?

I hobble over to the nearest chair and to my horror a trail of blood has followed me.

My sister has already ran to get mom.

I can't even bring myself to look.

Not more than ten minutes later my foot is wrapped up in gauze and we're on our way to the hospital.

My minor bleed is nowhere close to being as detrimental as the dog bite or the third degree burns from fireworks or the...is that a toilet seat stuck on that guy's head?

After 2 hours of waiting, a nurse soaks my *still* bleeding foot in soapy water which burns like no other as the cut on the bottom of my foot breathes in the antiseptics. Turns out the underside of my left pinky toe (the spot exactly where the little fold of toe meets foot) got caught on a loose screw and torn open. Four stitches later, I'm good to go.

Being at the pool is as much a part of me as breathing. Chlorinated water is part of my DNA. Avoiding the pool was never an option for me, and seeing as it had been years without incident what had I to fear?

The day is coming to a close, the sun is beginning to dip. We only have half an hour of swim time left for the day before the pool will be closed and despite my pruned fingers and trembling lips I stick it out for my sister.

Handstand competitions are the most current fad. I must've done a dozen by now, but I believe I have at least one last one in me.

I dive below the shallow water and just as I'm about to reach the bottom, my face smashes into the cement bottom. I'm talking full on fatal car crash collision.

Instantly, I spring up to the surface holding my face as I scrabble to the edge of the pool. My eyes sting with tears, but I make sure to not show anyone my face, especially my sister, before hurrying to the restroom.

In the mirror is Carrie from the prom. I could be the star in a horror film. Blood gushes down my face and I'm not even entirely sure where it's coming from. Quickly and efficiently emptying out 2 paper towel containers, I manage to staunch the bleeding enough before I can make it to a life guard and ask for assistance. They help me clean my face off further, but then hesitate when offering me a band aid.

Neither of us are sure how I've done it, but I've managed to scratch off the skin on my nose right between my eyes. You know, that part where the curvature of your face dips in? The one part of your face that mostly definitely wouldn't be the first, but should most definitely be the last, thing to hit something? Yeah, that part.

For weeks, I enjoyed the pleasure of walking around with this bright red then brown mark the size of a quarter on my face, right between my eyes as it healed. Good luck trying to find a band-aid that stays there.

I like to think of myself as a friendly and somewhat helpful person. The scar on my left index finger would dare to disagree, or rather a friendly reminder that there is such a thing as "wasted kindness."

Sitting in the quickly crowding lecture hall, a young man takes the seat next to me. This building (and probably the desks) are just as old as this campus itself and he struggles to lift the desk.

More annoyed that he keeps bumping me with his elbow than anything else, I help him pop up the desk. On the uplift, the wooden bottom of the desk slices across the length of my upper left index finger.

Class is just about to start and luckily it's only a 50 minute class, so I pinch the skin shut with my thumb and wait for the time to pass.

Said young gentlemen hasn't even pulled out a notebook but has decided to use his desk as a prop for his elbow which is a prop for his head as he naps. As I said, wasted kindness.

As soon as class is dismissed, I practically climb over the other students in my aisle to run to the bathroom. Water, soap, and blood expose a massive flap of skin.

A quick trot over to the on-campus health center and I tell the front desk worker that I cut my finger. I receive a dramatic eyeroll and pointed to the pharmacy across the hall.

"I think I need more than a band-aid." I say as I expose the newly bleeding finger that I'd dummy wrapped in paper towel.

I'm quickly sent to the next nurse station.

A similar conversation takes place before I'm ushered into a room.

Luckily no stitches are required. I'm given a week's worth of butterfly band-aids to help keep the skin sealed and gauze to keep out dirt and protect it from infection.

Hey, hear that funny story about the time I got a blister between my fourth and pinky toe just by walking around?

Or the time I accidentally scratched the length of my shin while trying on a new dress?

Oh, or the time I walked into the SIDE OF MY HOUSE while trying to open the door?

If anyone would ask, I'd say my superpower is being one of a kind. Nobody knows how to human quite as hard as I do. Who knows what'll happen next?